


New Year's Day

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hurry John, we’re losing him!”</p><p>Sherlock is a dark blur, a clatter of posh shoes, and then he’s gone up the ladder, disappeared over the edge of a building.</p><p>“Sherlock!” Furious, out of breath, and yet, John is halfway up the ladder before it occurrs to him that he should have let the Yard handle the chase alone, that he would get in the way –</p><p>But he’s outstripping them, isn’t he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year's Day

It is a frozen, fresh and white New Year’s Day. Snow is falling steadily in little tufts of white, gray commas against a white sky, white clumps against the tarmac melt.

Everything is quiet, the streets and their bustle seem far away, and for a moment John’s mind slips sideways the way it can, the way it did in deserts far away, as if blood and pain have greased some inner cogs. Perhaps they have, he thinks numbly, his bad shoulder screaming as it strains to – to do what? – he’s not sure –

Little gray commas approach then become little white clumps. His eyes focus on the tarmac melt so far away.

Shit.

 

*

Earlier:

“Hurry John, we’re losing him!”

Sherlock is a dark blur, a clatter of posh shoes, and then he’s gone up the ladder, disappeared over the edge of a building.

“Sherlock!” Furious, out of breath, and yet, John is halfway up the ladder before it occurrs to him that he should have let the Yard handle the chase alone, that he would get in the way –

But he’s outstripping them, isn’t he? They are so far behind already, not moving fast enough for him, not moving fast enough for Sherlock –

The roof top is empty, and John follows the melted black footprints across the roof. From the length of the strides, he can infer that Sherlock was running full out. He stretches his gait, reaches the roof edge, and takes the leap without checking, because he can see that Sherlock did it too –

He rolls when he lands, skids around a corner, and there is Sherlock, struggling with the suspect, who is now looking more and more guilty in John’s red-tinged opinion.

“Sherlock!” The struggling men both whip their heads to look at John, who has his Browning out and steady, the safety already thumbed ‘off’.

They are right by the edge of the roof, frozen in place, Sherlock with a split lip, the perp with blood running from one nostril –

And then they are exploding apart, and the assailant is running towards John (clever! Thinks John, because that’s one way to throw off a gunman) and Sherlock is falling in the direction that the assailant pushed him, which is towards the edge of the building.

John fires three times, almost blind, because his eyes never leave Sherlock’s falling form, tracking his movement, fires even as his feet and legs launch him forward and towards the assailant, and they pass each other, and John couldn’t care less if the man is falling or fleeing past him –

Sherlock is falling, arms pinwheeling in slow motion, and John feels sick, because this is like a dream he had for two years straight, and in the dream, he’s never fast enough –

John dives over the edge after Sherlock, and with one hand reaches for Sherlock’s flailing arm, and the other grabs at the gutter –

It can’t be a dream, John decides, because he was fast enough. He closes his eyes against the dizzying distance between the ground and their swaying feet. Little commas in the sky, little clumps splatting and fading below into black wetness. Sherlock’s hands are slippery with blood, like John’s brain.

“JOHN!” Sherlock bellows belatedly, then, “John, if he gets away because you interfered –”

“Sherlock, you shut up right now!” John roars right back, his shoulder a burning, seething , worming mass of nerves. “You bloody, sodding, idiot!” He struggles to maintain his grip on the detective. “Hold still you git!”

John watches the ground, searches for a soft landing, but there isn’t one, no convenient skip, no sudden mattress delivery truck. Behind them, the building hulks, steel, concrete and glass –

“Oh bugger,” John mutters and starts twitching them into a swing.

“You hold still!” Sherlock all but squawks.

“Help me!”

With a huff, the infuriating man throws his weight into the swing, nearly ripping John’s arm off. Two more swings, and John’s hand is slipping. “Now –!” John feels Sherlock clench, tucking into a ball, and if John could have, he would have, too.

Instead, when they break the window, he goes through side first, on his left, unprepared, unprotected.

Sherlock, the bloody cat, smashes through, passes beyond the razor shards, rolls, and then uncoils onto his feet –

John lands on top of him before he can regain his feet however, bleeding from a myriad of cuts.

In the moment of stillness that follows, the pretty sound of sheets of glass collapsing and shattering is the featured soloist.

“John. John. John –”

John rolls over and flops off. “Sherlock.”

“John!”

Somehow they’re still holding hands, even though Sherlock’s hands are smeared with blood and melted snow, even though John’s hand is trembling with fatigue and pain.

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand through the haze of pain. “You insufferable dick,” he whispers, “next time we let the Yard do the chasing bit.”

“Next time?” Sherlock eyes the multitude of cuts John has suffered. There is honest worry in his eyes.

John laughs weekly. “I survived Afghanistan, I can survive you.” He doesn’t say, I survived two years without you. I would rather die with you. That’s not something mates say.

Snowflakes are drifting in through the open window, and when the Yard catches up, when they realize where the two of them are, snow has frosted Sherlock’s dark locks, where he is crouched over John’s prone form, shielding him from cold, keeping him conscious by squeezing his hand when his eyelids flicker.

 

 

 

Epilogue:

“We bagged the suspect,” Lestrade says as they move John.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums acknowledgement, watching as they load John up.

“He’s alive, but shot in both legs – he didn’t get far. Both bullets missed major arteries.” Lestrade watches the consulting detective. He looks at John. He smiles. “He’s quite a catch.”

“Hmm…What?” Sherlock whips around to stare at Lestrade.

“I said he’s quite a shot.”

“You can’t prove a thing. Not without me, anyway.” Sherlock stalks off, hands in pockets, to bully his way into the ambulance before it departs.

Lestrade grins up at the snowfall.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited: Thanks be to OrmondSacker for reminding me about 'her cats'....This is what happens when I post late at night.


End file.
